


The Little Things

by matskreider



Series: The Little Things [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Fluff, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Oral Fixation, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, also yes Steve Rogers would totally watch HGTV and the History Channel, and I made Bucky Freeform trash just like I am, and more oral fixation needed, honestly this just comes from me wanting to see more lil Steve and beefcake Bucky, it's just rated teen to be safe tbh, there's nothing explicit in this at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A domestic scene of a disabled veteran sniper, a health-challenged artist, and a little habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

He hears the sound before he sets his sights on him. The scraping, thickly skittering sound of a pencil running along teeth. It keeps going, rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth, and Bucky can picture clearly what’s going on. Kicking the door closed behind him, he comes in, toeing his sneakers off and sighing in relief at the press of cold wooden floors against his feet. Bucky walks out of the foyer and fully into the apartment, snickering as his suspicions are proven correct.

 

Seated on the floor in the living room, sketch book spread over his obscenely small lap, Steve sits at attention watching reruns of something on the History Channel, running his 2B pencil over his lower set of teeth, back and forth, back and forth. As he hears the door close, he looks up, the pencil clamped in his mouth now, on the right side of his mouth. Making eye contact with Bucky changes his whole demeanor from baseline politeness to warm excitement. His eyes light up behind his dark rimmed glasses, and Bucky feels his heart warm at the expression.

 

“Hey, Buck. How was your run?” The pencil bobs in his mouth as he talks, but it doesn’t hinder the excitement in his voice.

 

“Good. Sam sends his regards,” he calls over his shoulder as he padded into the kitchen. He’s still sweating from his morning run, and he drains two bottles of Poland Spring before he can talk again. “What about you, whatcha get done today?”

 

Were it not for the chewing to have suddenly gotten louder, he wouldn’t have known Steve had come up beside him. He’s too quiet, but no matter what Bucky does, he just can’t get any more weight on the guy. Nutritionists said something about the extra calories actually being _harder_ for Steve to process, what with the rest of his health issues already, but Bucky hadn’t really stopped. It was all shit he needed anyway.

 

“Continued my sketches. I wanted to get started on some water color, but the scanner wasn’t working with me, and I’m still out of yellow and red paints,” Steve replies, leaning against the counter that came up to his ribs.

 

Bucky stands, closing the fridge and gently ruffling Steve’s hair with his left hand. He has to be careful not to get the duckling soft strands caught in the plates in his hand, but Steve leans into the touch anyway. “Also went to the corner store, got you a surprise on the way back.”

 

“Surprise? Bucky, you don’t have to get me anything, you know that.” That fire of independence lights in those stormy baby blues. The trapped pencil continues moving as Steve talks, now rolling in place as Steve ground his teeth into the instrument. Bucky chuckles, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a pack of gum.

 

“It’s not for your sake; I’m saving this guy’s life,” the veteran teases, gently gripping the end of the pencil.

 

A blush overcomes the shorter man, and Steve opens his mouth, letting Bucky remove the pencil. The end isn’t quite well worn, but Bucky knows it’s only a matter of time.

 

“You managed to chip the paint on this one,” he marvels, turning it as if inspecting it in the light.

 

Steve looks up from picking out said pieces of paint of his teeth, a sheepish expression on his face. “I was _thinking,_ you know it happens sometimes. Jerk.” He takes the pencil back, popping a piece of gum in his mouth from the new pack as he does so, padding over to his box on the coffee table. The pencil drops in to join its other chewed brethren as Bucky drains his third water bottle.

 

“And you’re a little punk, pal, but you knew that.” There’s nothing but affection in his tone, and he reaches up, pulling the pink elastic from his hair, long damp locks falling down around his shoulders. “Gonna shower sweetheart, be back soon.”

 

“I’ll try not to miss you too much,” came the reply, punctuated by a bubble popping as Steve returned to watching TV, using the commercial breaks for sketching.

 

* * *

 

Bucky had known about Steve’s oral fixation before Steve himself had noticed. Back in high school, he’d always been chewing on pen caps and pencils, lips and nails. Every day, right at 3:45pm, Bucky would slip him a piece of gum, and watch as Steve would finally find some peace with his own belongings and his body. It got to the point that in classes, Steve would have to have at least two writing utensils out – one for chewing, one for actually taking notes.

 

Only because gum wasn’t allowed during the school day did Bucky keep the pieces to himself. But he always made sure to give Steve one, or sneak a pack into his locker, just so he’d have a constant stash. Fast forward ten years, and it was obvious it wasn’t going to change any time soon.

 

Technically, it wasn’t detrimental. As long as it didn’t go so far as to cause injury to him, and the things he put in his mouth were clean – Steve was no child, but his immune system and general statue seemed to think so – the habit was just that. A habit.

 

Turning the water off, Bucky runs his hand through his hair, squeezing it out before drying himself. He steps out into their shared bedroom, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and brushing out his hair, before sighing. This was why he hated washing his hair, he mused as he looked down at the stray strands trapped in the plating of his hand and wrist. He could get most of it out, but he knew from experience he often did more harm than good when he went digging around his own arm for too long.

 

The last thing he wanted was to get hauled in to Stark’s place and have to talk him out of adding unnecessary updates to his arm, making it more alien than it was already.

 

 _Like, who even needs a bottle opener in their arm? It’s asinine,_ Bucky grumbles to himself.

Of course he’d told Tony in much nicer words than he had just thought, but the sentiment was the same.

 

“Hey, c’mere you little artist,” he mutters as he walks into the main area of the apartment, stopping behind the couch and looking down at the curled up figure on the couch. Steve holds up a finger, enthralled by whatever program he’s put on now – but just hearing Nicole Curtis’ voice from the TV tells him that it is most definitely _not_ the History Channel anymore.

 

Frustrated, Bucky frowns at the screen, before looking back down at Steve. “What exactly is the plot of the show, anyway?”

 

“She finds old houses, usually ones marked for demolition, and then redoes them, usually with vintage or antique furnishings.” The genuine interest Steve displays is both amusing and infuriating to Bucky. He can handle constant World War II documentaries in the background, but if he hears one more person gush about what a great deal $200 is for a full sized claw-footed bathtub, he’s going to lose his mind.

 

“Yeah that’s fascinating and all, but I have another project for you, a different wreck you can fix up.” He holds out his hand, the metal reflecting the light from the TV. His hairs hang plastered to the metal like seaweed, and he laughs at Steve’s instinctual reaction to jerk back.

 

“Jesus Buck, how aren’t you bald already?” He sits up, wrapping his red, white, and blue checkered blanket further around him. Before he sits down, Bucky turns AC up a few degrees, hoping to make it a bit warmer for Steve.

 

“Luck of the draw, I guess. Just shut up and help me.” He rests his arm in Steve’s lap on request, and though he can’t quite feel the slide of the hair as Steve’s slim fingers work them free, he can feel the warmth of the side of his palm there.

 

Steve makes a small noise of protest, but it’s not the first time that something like this has happened. He continues with his work, balling up the hair on the blanket in front of him. Soon enough, Bucky’s arm is cleared out, and Steve takes the opportunity to just play with it.

 

The veteran watches on with a small smile, before turning his attention back to the TV. It’s still on the same channel, the overly bright and cheerful commercials a stark contrast to the serious and darkened colors of the History Channel. Vaguely, now that he’s not paying attention to it, he can feel his fingers being moved around, his hand being twisted this way and that – a gentle touch, cooler than it should have been but still warmer than metal. The touches move up his arm to the star painted at his shoulder, no outline on the shape.

 

Steve had done that for him, when he’d seen Bucky again after the operation. He’d spouted some stuff about wanting to work on a new medium, and honestly it was better than having Stark Industries painted over the side of the arm, like the Canadian arm on the international space station. The last thing he wanted was to become a walking billboard for the corporation. And at first, it had seemed that he would have no choice, what with him technically being the first one to have such an operation, and the near constant pain meds he was on while they worked out the kinks of the neural net.

 

But of course the same bravely independent little scrap of a guy had come in, all but knocking the air brush out of the technician’s hands. Bucky still remembered hearing that grating man’s voice, in stark contrast to the surprisingly deep one of none other than Steven Grant Rogers. The resulting shouting match only ended when Bucky concentrated enough to grab onto Steve’s wrist. He remembered trying consciously not to crush the small wrist in his grasp. In actuality, he’d missed Steve’s wrist by a few inches, only brushing the fair skin as he’d closed his hand in a loose grasp around nothing.

 

Later, he’d laughed at the irony of thinking nothing was the same as Steve’s wrist, but at the moment, he’d been convinced he had a good grip.

 

“Don’t make me have to break this in on saving your ass again,” he’d grumbled – or at least, _meant_ to grumble. What he’d been able to enunciate was more or less “Don’t make me break this in on your ass,” which had lead to a furiously blushing Steve and equally embarrassed technician, who’d excused himself as soon as he was able.

 

The next time Bucky could focus through the pain meds, the star was in place, and Steve was wiping off the air brush next to him. Bucky still remembered the shift between Steve’s critical Artists Stare (as he’d jokingly taken to calling it during junior year) and his normal, excited self. To see it directed at him was a welcome sensation through the haze of pain meds, and it was that smile that had gotten him through the following months of physical therapy.

 

Bucky didn’t remember his little slip up until a few weeks _after_ they’d started dating. That particular conversation still made the former sniper blush all the way up to his ears, but he still recalled it with something akin to fondness.

 

He comes out of his thoughts when there’s a little flick to his jaw, and he looks down at Steve, raising a brow at him.

 

“And _I’m_ the one with the hearing aid,” Steve grumbles under his breath, before poking again at Bucky’s metal arm. “I can’t feel my thighs, Buck.”

 

“Oh, shit, sorry!” He picks up his arm again, recalling all to easily how it is to let it become a deadweight, when he wasn’t paying attention. “Sorry Stevie, you alright?” The childhood nickname slips out, and Steve’s mocking glare softens a bit at the term.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just gonna have pins and needles for a bit, is all. Besides,” the blond counters, standing up and grabbing the small hairball from the coffee table, “I needed a new piece of gum anyway.”

 

Bucky takes advantage of the fact that Steve’s gone to open up On Demand, flipping through until he found his one true guilty pleasure.

 

“Buck, don’t you change it, don’t you dare – is that _Pretty Little Liars?!_ ” The indignant squeak holds hints of a wheeze, and Bucky turns with an amused look, but also double checking on the smaller man standing in the kitchen, to be sure he’s alright.

 

“Guilty as charged, Rogers.” The impish smile stays in place, even as Steve shakes his head, coming back over to the couch. He folds his bony frame easily, tucking his knees to his chest, before laying down against Bucky’s side. The warm-cool feeling of Bucky’s metal arm comforts him, keeping him tucked against the solid warmth that is James Buchanan Barnes.

 

“You’re so weird,” comes the mumbled reply, and Bucky doesn’t bother trying to hide his huff of amusement. As he gently works his hand against Steve’s chest, feeling the all too defined collarbones, lighter than a bird’s, he comes across a little disturbance he hadn’t noticed before. He rubs it, feeling the outline of a hard, rectangular presence – no, presences, as there was more than one – and he’s a bit dismayed that the sensitivity of his arm wasn’t enough to tell immediately what it was.

 

Steve whines, speaking something into Bucky’s chest, but the vet doesn’t quite catch it. Turning his head to the side, Steve tries again. “I said I missed you.” His voice is soft, and vulnerable, and it makes Bucky stop pressing against the now familiar shape.

 

Bucky’s smile is softer this time. Leaning down, he presses a kiss to Steve’s hair, then another to his temple. “Missed you too.” He doesn’t point out that the run is a normal occurrence on weekends, nor that he was only gone for two hours, tops. Despite routine, there are some things that don’t care about logic – the pressing need to be held by someone you thought you once lost makes that list quite frequently in this household.

 

Those are their last words for the remainder of the hour, as Bucky was entranced by the show and only talked during the brief 30 second commercial breaks. He doesn’t say anything as Steve switches the gum out for another, tougher substance. Once again, familiar clicking filled the companionable silence, Bucky’s dog tags worked over by Steve’s tongue, sliding against his teeth.

 

All was as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry Bucky, my hair does the same thing. I just don't have a prosthetic for it to get caught up in. I also have a follow up for this in mind, maybe just more little things about Steve and his habits, Bucky's recovery, and, of course, the one thing that makes people snicker when they hear the term "oral fixation." 
> 
> So leave a comment and lemme know if you wanna see more from this! It was also my first ever Stucky writing so let me know how accurate I was too!


End file.
